


Gas-Lamps Gleam in a Golden Line

by merle_p



Category: The Limehouse Golem (2016)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, London, Loyalty, M/M, Self-Doubt, Slow Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Victorian, Workplace Relationship, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: “Are you alright, Sir?” Flood asks, standing in the doorway to his new office, all sincere concern and wide eyes.Damn this man, Kildare curses silently, and realises that the past three days did not solve anything at all.“Why would I not be?” he asks, staring over Flood’s left shoulder at the wall.Flood’s face does a complicated dance before it settles back into the expression of mournful worry that Kildare is by now far too familiar with.“No particular reason,” he says evenly. “It’s good to have you back, Sir.”
Relationships: John Kildare/George Flood
Comments: 17
Kudos: 42
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Gas-Lamps Gleam in a Golden Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmilla/gifts).



> Carmilla, thank you so much for introducing me to this delightful movie! I watched it because I was intrigued by your letter, fell hard for this pairing, and got inspired by your prompts. I do hope you like my take on their relationship. Happy Yuletide!
> 
> The title is a line from the poem "A March Day in London" by Amy Levy, a female Jewish and potentially queer Victorian poet.

What is the thing I fear, and why?  
Nay, but the world is all awry--  
The wind's in the east, the sun's in the sky.  
The gas-lamps gleam in a golden line;  
The ruby lights of the hansoms shine,  
Glance, and flicker like fire-flies bright;  
The wind has fallen with the night,  
And once again the town seems fair  
Thwart the mist that hangs i' the air.

(From: Amy Levy, A March Day in London, 1889)

The promotion to chief inspector Scotland Yard awards him for closing the Golem case comes with a new office, a significant raise, and (as an added bonus, or perhaps merely because he looks like he needs it) three extra days of leave. 

He takes them the day after Aveline Ortega breaks her neck in a stage accident.

The melodramatic side in him insists that he will use the time to finally work up the courage to kill himself. 

A much more cowardly part of him whispers that he simply cannot bear the thought of facing Flood again so soon. 

He spends two days aimlessly wandering along the canals, exercising his detective’s brain to analyse the height of bridges, the strength of currents, and the remoteness of locations to assess their respective convenience for committing suicide. 

He tells himself that at least while he is pondering the most efficient way to off himself, he won’t have to relive, over and over, his last interaction with Lizzie, won’t have to contemplate the part he had played in the production she had put on for the audience of all of London, including him, to see.

Yet, even as he pushes himself to exhaustion, walking for hours without food or water in the damp cold, the images will not leave him alone. The shame threatens to engulf him whenever he recalls the memory of Flood’s unwavering trust even as he let the man believe that he had solved the case when really, he had been traipsing about in the dark the whole time. 

He is well aware of the irony that it is his own hubris which did him in. As much of a curse as his proclivities had proved to be for his career, he had always taken comfort in the fact that at least they made him a better detective, at least they ensured that he wasn’t as likely to be fooled by a pretty woman’s face as so many of his colleagues tended to be. 

In the end, though, this misconception had made him the biggest fool of all: All this time, he had thought he could see what no one else did. Instead, he’d been fooled by a young woman, and distracted by a pretty face, although that face hadn’t been hers. 

He spends the third day indoors, resting his aching legs and fending off a cold, resigned to the fact that he has apparently sentenced himself to life. 

He isn’t sure what stopped him, in the end – whether it’s the sheer stubborn refusal to give Roberts the satisfaction to be rid of him, or because he is scared of what’s waiting for him on the other side. 

(Or perhaps, the coward in him whispers, he can’t stand the thought of what Flood would think of him.) 

On the fourth day, he rises and dresses and goes to work, safe in the knowledge that no one who encounters him on his way to his office will ever guess the struggle with darkness he fought while he was gone. 

Almost no one, that is. 

“Are you alright, Sir?” Flood asks, standing in the doorway to his new office, all sincere concern and wide eyes. 

Damn this man, Kildare curses silently, and realises that the past three days did not solve anything at all.

“Why would I not be?” he asks, staring over Flood’s left shoulder at the wall. 

Flood’s face does a complicated dance before it settles back into the expression of mournful worry that Kildare is by now far too familiar with. 

“No particular reason,” he says evenly. “It’s good to have you back, Sir.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he steps closer and drops a file onto Kildare’s desk. It looks forlorn on the blank, still empty surface. 

“We have a murder case.”

Kildare focuses on the file so he doesn’t need to look Flood in the eye.

“What do we have so far?”

The constable reaches over and flips the file open to reveal a photograph. Kildare looks at the image and resists the urge to avert his eyes. 

“Man was found behind The Coffee Pot in Mile End,” Flood explains. “Killed by a blow to the head, seems like, with a blunt object. One of the news-boys found him in the morning.”

“Any witnesses?” Kildare asks. 

“The couple living over the shop, Sir,” Flood responds, and turns over the photograph, presenting him with a page of neatly written notes. “They didn’t see anything but heard the whole thing.”

“Right,” Kildare nods and reaches for the file. Flood quickly withdraws his hand to avoid their fingers brushing against each other over the open page. 

“Let’s go pay them a visit then.”

They make an arrest by the end of the next day. It is a straightforward case, an argument over a gambling debt gone wrong, and the killer confesses without needing to be prompted twice. 

But it’s also undeniable that they make an excellent team. They worked well together during the Golem case, but it is a different matter now that Kildare understands that what he dismissed as a kind of common-sense naiveté in Flood is in fact an instinctual astute understanding of human nature. 

For all that Kildare had so diligently studied and analysed the Golem’s ambitions and clues, in the end Flood had understood as well as he did – better perhaps – what it had all been about. 

Kildare puts his signature on the final piece of paperwork and closes the folder. It is getting dark outside, and the traffic in the hallway has quieted down – they are among the last few still in the building at this hour of the evening. 

Flood stretches in his seat and yawns. Kildare stares into the night outside his window so his eyes don’t get lost following the taut line of Flood’s body as he arches his back. 

When he finally determines it safe again to look at his constable, Flood is glancing up at him with a tilt to his head. 

“Pub, Sir?” he asks lightly, as if there isn’t anything more to the question. 

Kildare turns to gaze once more at the darkness outside, thinks of his cold, empty flat and the water in the canals, then looks back at Flood’s open, hopeful face. 

“Why not,” he says, and tries to ignore the way Flood’s eyes light up at his words. 

They walk past the nearest pub on the block in unspoken agreement – its convenient location means that it is always full of law enforcement of all ranks at any time of day, and neither of them is in the mood for that. 

Instead they end up at the same locale they went to last time; just far enough out of the way to be blessedly free of other policemen, and still central enough to be respectable. 

“Roberts cornered me while you were gone,” Flood says at some point halfway through the third pint. 

“I’m not surprised,” Kildare says dryly. “What did he want?”

Flood shrugs. “Suggest that I would have a better chance at getting promoted to Sergeant quickly if I worked for Turner.”

Kildare nods. It is nothing he didn’t expect, but it stings a little nonetheless.

“He is probably right,” he says bluntly. 

Flood frowns. “He is scheming because he is jealous of your success and knows we are a good team.”

Kildare suppresses a snort. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t right about your career.”

Flood sighs. “I like where I am,” he simply says, looking at him over the rim of his glass, and Kildare cannot quite shake the suspicion that he is not just talking about his rank.

Sleep does not come easily to him that night. He tosses and turns, and gets up twice to relieve himself before he has to admit to himself that the beer is not what is keeping him awake. 

He finally takes himself in hand, a luxury he doesn’t permit himself all that often anymore. As always, he tries to keep his mind blank, focusing instead on the sheer sensuality of the act, but as he begins to lose himself in pleasure, the images keep coming back, unbidden. 

As much as Kildare’s waking thoughts are still haunted by the Golem, there is another memory he cannot seem to shake, equal parts more tempting and more terrifying: the feeling of Flood’s solid, warm hand covering his own, the sensation of those dark, compassionate eyes, and the awful thrill of watching Flood get down to his knees by his side without giving it a second thought. 

Far too vividly, Kildare remembers the jolt of conflicted emotions racing through his body at the time: the grief over Lizzie’s fate and her lost soul, the shame of having failed in his duty, and the fierce need to reach out and accept the comfort that Flood was offering up so willingly. 

The instinctual reflex to withdraw had prevailed, and despite the resigned disappointment he had seen cross Flood’s face, Kildare had told himself that it had been the right thing to do. Entertaining any other possibility seemed impossible – it was too dangerous, he was too old, too damaged, too bloody guilty, and there was no way Flood could possibly mean what Kildare secretly, shamefully wanted him to mean. 

It is this very memory that now creeps up on his consciousness, the image of Flood on his knees, looking up at him, his mouth opened slightly. Only this time, Kildare doesn’t pull away. Instead, he watches himself curl a hand over the back of Flood’s neck and gently but steadily push the man’s head down into his lap.

He gasps, the mere thought almost enough to push him over the edge, and he doesn’t last long after that – a few more strokes and the flash of an image, far less innocent, and then he is spilling into his own hand. 

Vaguely disgusted with his own weakness, he wipes his hand clean on his sheets; but the feeling of remorse is drowned out by the warm sense of satiation and exhaustion overtaking his body, and a few minutes later, he is fast asleep, his dreams for once unperturbed by nightmares. 

If anything, he becomes more careful after that. The morning after his digression, he rises with the resolution to avoid any further socialising, and to gently nudge Flood into the direction of Chief Inspector Turner, for the constable’s own good. 

The latter intention lasts until he sets foot into his office that very morning, where he finds Flood waiting for him with another file for a new case. As they are working their way through the evidence, he is reminded once more of the fact that there is no one he has ever worked with who so beautifully catches every ball he throws them and so effortlessly passes it back with a different spin. 

In a rare bout of stubborn selfishness, Kildare decides that Turner can find his own damn constable if he pleases. 

However, he does take care to keep his distance. He makes a conscious effort not to react to Flood’s tentative attempts at deepening their connection, ignores the casual invitations to the pub, the careful questions about his life, the subtle jokes. 

Chances are that Flood is merely trying to get along, in the friendly and trusting way that seems to be in his nature. But if the night after their last trip to the pub has proven anything, it’s that Kildare cannot trust himself to maintain the boundaries that Flood is too young or too inexperienced to consider necessary. And so the only reasonable course of action is to keep the other man at arm’s length, as much as it feels as if he is breaking off the last thriving twig of a dying tree, watching it wither and dry up for good. 

“Sir?” Flood says, with mild concern, and Kildare flinches, the voice pulling him back to the present with a jolt.

“Yes?” he says with some effort, pretending that he didn’t just let himself be distracted from his task by maudlin contemplation. 

“Looks like he left in a hurry,” Flood says, his hand brushing against the half-empty tea cup on the cluttered table. “The tea is still warm.”

He frowns. “Do you think he knew to expect us?”

“Perhaps,” Kildare responds, gazing around the dark, dusty room that belongs to the man they are here to question, taking in the overturned chair, the clothes and papers scattered across the floor. 

“Or maybe he heard us arrive and put two and two together.”

He sighs, and starts his examination in earnest. Three weavers dead in Bethnal Green, killed within a mere two weeks, the youngest only 17 years old – and all of them were seen being courted by a man whose description fits Kenny Shaw, the inhabitant of this narrow, shabby flat. 

A glimpse of red on the dresser catches his eye. 

“What is it?” Flood asks, stepping closer, although Kildare notices that he carefully keeps his distance. He tells himself that it is a good thing as he picks the silky ribbon up with two fingers. 

“Does this look like something a gentleman would wear?”

“Depends on the gentleman,” Flood quips and then looks as if he wants to bite his tongue. He coughs awkwardly and reaches for the ribbon. 

“There are several long hairs still caught in the knots,” he says. “Copper-blond curls. Matches the last victim, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Kildare nods, and tries not to think of another woman with beautiful copper hair he once knew. “Maybe our killer likes to keep souvenirs?” 

“Sir?” Constable Anderson appears in the doorframe. “We’ve talked to the neighbours, but no one has seen Shaw today.” He clears his throat. “Or so they claim. O’Reilly is just finishing up his notes. What would you like us to do next?”

Kildare weighs his head. “I’m afraid you won’t like it, but it might be worth going through the gar …” 

“Oi!” O’Reilly’s voice rings out downstairs in the street, followed by the shrill sound of his whistle. “You! Stop!”

“Go, go, go,” Kildare says urgently, and Flood and the second constable take off, the impact of their heavy boots loud on the creaking wooden stairs. Kildare follows them at a more moderate pace, too aware of his age to think that he could possibly keep up with them. 

He steps out of the building and right into the foggy darkness of the London night. Constable Anderson appears at his side, his pale face illuminated by the small lantern he is holding up between them. 

“Did we lose him?” Kildare asks, out of breath for more than one reason. 

Anderson shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, pointing down the street. “Flood and O’Reilly went after him.”

Kildare stares into the night. The fog is so thick he can barely see as far as the length of his nose, swallowing the lights of the streetlamps, suffocating the noises of the street and the sound of the water in the canal. 

“How long have they been gone?” Kildare asks, but before Anderson can answer, a muffled shout rings out somewhere in the darkness ahead, followed by a splash. 

“Christ,” Anderson whispers. 

“We need a light,” O’Reilly shouts, far closer than expected, and they hurry down the street until they find the constable, bent over the low wall separating the pavement from the canal. 

“Quick,” Kildare urges, and Anderson raises the lantern. 

There is a body in the water, floating slowly in their direction, and for a moment, Kildare forgets to breathe. But then Anderson sets the lantern down on the wall, and the two constables jump over the barrier into one of the narrow skiffs anchored down below, using the oars to drag the body close to the boat.

Even in the dim light of the lantern cutting through the fog, Kildare can tell that the motionless lump they are pulling from the water is not Flood. 

“Where is Flood?” he asks, but his voice doesn’t carry far, and the officers’ attention is occupied by their efforts to pull the dead man on board. 

Kildare searches the water with his eyes, but there is nothing but darkness, the fog that seems to get heavier by the minute, and the black water dragging down the canal.

He pushes himself away from the wall and walks blindly, calling Flood’s name as he stumbles along, refusing to think about the pointlessness of his endeavour if Flood went into the water with Shaw. Refusing to think about how he walked these same paths mere weeks ago, struggling to work up the determination to drown himself in the currents. 

As he trips over an uneven cobblestone, it suddenly occurs to him that this is how she makes him pay. He had promised Lizzie to save her from the men who had harmed her, but in the end it was him who robbed her of her very last chance to become famous, to remain unforgotten, the one thing she wanted most in the world.

And now she is taking her revenge from beyond the grave, just as she’d taken her revenge on Aveline, by robbing him of the one person he’s come to care about in this lonely, miserable world.

“Flood! George!” His voice breaks, and he stops, his breath coming in ragged spurts, his heart beating too fast in his ribcage. 

“I am here,” a disembodied voice answers, and then Flood steps out of the fog, blinding him with the lantern he is carrying by his side. 

Kildare struggles for air. 

“You are not dead,” he says blankly. 

“Not that I’m aware,” Flood says lightly, and it is a joke, of course it is a joke, but something must show in his face, because suddenly Flood raises a hand towards him and shakes his head. 

“No, no, I’m not dead,” he says, his voice gentle as if he is reassuring a frightened child. “I am alright,” he continues, “it’s fine,” and Kildare can’t figure out why he keeps talking – he isn’t an idiot, he can see for himself that Flood is alive and well, if a little dishevelled – until he looks down at his hands and realises that they are shaking. 

“Oh,” he says, a little surprised. He suddenly feels rather light-headed. 

The next thing he knows, O’Reilly appears from behind, and he and Flood are exchanging words, but the fog seems to swallow them all before they even reach Kildare’s ears, because he cannot hear a single one of them. Then O’Reilly salutes and disappears again into the night, and Flood comes to stand by his side. 

“I’m taking you home,” Flood says resolutely, and Kildare shakes his head, because the thought is too embarrassing: Flood offering to walk him back to his flat as if he is a young unwed woman in need of protection. 

He has every intention of telling Flood as much, except it turns out that his mouth does not seem to obey him, and so he helplessly endures the careful hand Flood places on his back to steer him in the direction of the main road. 

He doesn’t complain when Flood flags down a cab on Old Ford Road; listens when Flood directs the driver towards St.-Martin-in-the-Fields and doesn’t ask how he knows his address; allows the constable to help him down the steps once the carriage stops in front of his building; hands over his keys without protest, and lets Flood guide him up the narrow stairs to the second floor, into his own flat, and onto a chair in the parlour.

He sits obediently as Flood turns on the gas lamp, stares at the pattern on his rug as if he is seeing it for the very first time, and is dimly aware that Flood is talking to him, except the fog must have followed them home from the canal because he still cannot understand what the man is telling him. 

Suddenly Flood’s face is right in front of him, his lips pursed in concern. 

“What is it,” Flood says urgently, and finally, finally Kildare can make sense of his words. 

“ _John_. You are scaring me.” 

Then Flood’s hand is on his face, fingers still damp and cold from the night. Kildare jerks back in surprise, the unexpected contact shocking him into awareness, and Flood’s hand slips away, landing heavily on his knee. 

“Let me take care of you,” Flood says, his dark eyes steady and sad. 

Kildare shakes his head. He should get up, should move away, he knows that much. All the usual excuses are on the tip of his tongue – too old, too damaged, how could he possibly want … and yet, when he finally gets his lips to move, what he ends up saying is: 

“I am not who you think I am.”

“What?” Flood asks, confused, his fingers clenching briefly around Kildare’s leg. “I know that you are …”

“The Golem,” Kildare interrupts, and he doesn’t quite understand why he is saying this now, he just knows that he cannot possibly stop. 

“I didn’t tell you the truth, it was …”

“Lizzie, yes,” Flood nods, earnestly but without surprise. 

Kildare feels his stomach plummet with horror. 

“You knew?” 

Flood looks down, where his hand is still resting on Kildare’s knee. “Suspected, yes. After the way Ortega died, it got me thinking.” 

Kildare shakes his head, uncomprehendingly. “About what?”

Flood shrugs. “The motive, of course. Which we lost track of in the sea of blood the Golem left for us to wade through. The one person who had reason to resent everyone who died. Things started to fall into place.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Kildare asks, dismayed. 

Flood glances up at him and raises his brows. “I would have, if you hadn’t worked so hard to avoid me.” 

“I wasn’t – “ he starts, but Flood interrupts him with a huff. 

“Avoiding me?” he asks sharply. “No, you were just wandering along the river for days, trying to find the best spot to jump.”

Kildare swallows hard, distraught. “How …” 

Flood looks away. “I had you followed.”

“Followed?” he repeats, inanely. 

“I am a police officer,” Flood shrugs. “And you didn’t seem quite yourself. A couple of street boys earned a small fortune. They will make good informants when we need them again.”

“Why on Earth would you do such a thing?” Kildare asks, stupefied. 

“I don’t want to seem impertinent," Flood sighs. "But you are the smartest man I have ever met, and yet you fail to see what’s right in front of you.”

“I don’t understand,” Kildare says, and Flood glances up at him, determined and vulnerable all at once.

“Oh, I think you do,” he says dryly. It occurs to Kildare then that Flood is once again on his knees, looking up at him like he did in his dream, but he is not given much time to think about it, because that’s when the younger man leans in to capture his mouth in a kiss. 

It is a brief one, as far as kisses go, careful and light, but it leaves him breathless nonetheless. 

“This is a terrible idea,” he says shakily, even as his hand betrays him, somehow finding its way to Flood’s face, thumb tracing his cheekbone with reverence and care. 

Flood’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into the touch. “Because you don’t want this?” he asks, sounding as if it costs him an enormous effort to get out the words. 

Kildare takes in his face, the long lashes, the full lips, with greedy longing and the anticipation of regret. 

“Because there is no way this will end well for you.” 

Flood laughs a little at that. “I suppose we will find out,” he says, as if the prospect doesn’t trouble him at all. “But trust me to know, in the meantime, that I consider it worth the risk.”

“How can you be so sure, George?” Kildare can’t stop himself from asking, while his fingertips keep exploring the soft dark curls, the curve of Flood’s neck. 

“Are you not scared at all?”

Flood shudders slightly at his words, but when he looks up at him, Kildare sees only want in his eyes. 

“Stop thinking for once,” he says hoarsely. “Stop thinking, and let me take care of you.”

He pushes himself up on his knees for another kiss, this one longer and deeper, a promise of more, and Kildare closes his eyes and takes a leap.


End file.
